Becoming T Branson
by Agnes Robinson
Summary: In 1915 Tom Branson decides to start writing articles for a small newspaper in York. As his career in journalism takes shape, he must makes decisions about his politics, life and friends. In Canon with Season Two. Please review.
1. An Opportunity

An Opportunity

Spring 1915

Tom Branson sat in the servants' hall waiting to take the Dowager Countess back to her residence. He snapped his newspaper in annoyance. He had just read an article on the Australian contribution to the war effort that cited outdated history and was largely based on innuendo rather than fact. He could easily pull out three texts in his Lordship's library in less than five minutes to dispute the article and shove it down the author's throat. "Well why don't you, you big dolt?" He thought to himself, "You have no trouble running your mouth off and getting yourself in trouble for less."

"Mr. Branson?" the question came from Claire, one of the line up of housemaids that had come and gone since the start of the war. "It's such a nice evening, would you care to step outside with me?" The request was delivered with a chorus of giggles from another maid, Hazel, and Claire batting her big round eyes at him.

"Thank you, but no," Tom said as he lowered his newspaper. These two were the worst so far. He had taken to sitting as far to the opposite end of the table from them as he could after he had felt a hand sneaking into his lap during a staff meal shortly after their arrival. He had no interest in a girl who's greatest ambition in life was to have children, live two doors away from her Mam and Da and had not a thought in her head besides how she was to find a husband. He hadn't wanted that in Ireland and he certainly didn't want it now. The truth was there was only one girl that occupied his dreams these days and she was upstairs entertaining her grandmother in the drawing room.

"If you will excuse me, I must find Mrs. Hughes," Tom stood up, folded his paper under his arm and went off to see the housekeeper regarding her errand list for the following day. Since the war broke out fuel was getting harder to come by and his lordship's meetings were getting longer. Tom was now regularly tasked with doing the household errands while waiting for his lordship.

As Tom and Mrs. Hughes were going over her list, they heard the voices of Claire and Hazel as they past by.

"That Mr. Branson is a handsome one, but so peculiar always reading like that. I saw him polishing some brass the other day."

"I wouldn't mind helping him polish his brass."

"Oh Aye, I could polish his brass for him, alright."

As the chorus of giggles faded down the hall, Tom's face was crimson with embarrassment.

"Mrs. Hughes, I assure you I have done nothing…"

"I am well aware of the situation, Mr. Branson. I will have a word with them." She didn't tell Mr. Branson but she had had a full report from Mr. Lynch on the escapades of the two girls at the stables.

"Mrs. Hughes I was wondering if I might visit his lordship's library when I return from delivering the Dowager Countess, if it is no inconvenience."

"I have no objection, Mr. Branson, I will await your return before locking up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

Later that evening once Tom had finished his duties for the day and collected the books he wanted, he sat down in his cottage and reviewed the article that had set his teeth on edge. It was a smaller paper, The Yorkshire Herald, not the bigger Tory papers his lordship favored. Even if they did publish his letter to the editor he doubted anyone from the estate would ever see it. He got out his pen and paper, cleared his mind and began to write. He could post it tomorrow while doing errands. No one at the estate would be the wiser.

A week later Mr. Carson handed Tom a letter in a legal size envelope. Tom's curiosity was peeked but he quickly put the letter into an inside pocket so he could open it in private.

"I hope you are not having any difficulties Mr. Branson," came the polite inquiry accompanied by a small frown of concern.

"Not that I am aware, Mr. Carson,"

"Very well then, carry on."

Tom made a hasty retreat to the garage, as he did not have any scheduled trips or errands for the estate this morning. He was surprised at the contents of the letter. The editor of the Yorkshire Herald advised him his letter would be published in the Wednesday edition. The letter went on to say they were impressed with his citations and clarity of thought. They would welcome any story ideas he had for consideration. The editor had included a copy of their submission guidelines and would be happy to hear from him in the near future.

He had ideas all right, he thought to himself. They flowed out of him like a river that had burst a dam although he feared most of his ideas would be too radical or controversial for a small English paper. His mind slid back to the conversation he had with Sybil the year before when driving her back from a rally in Ripon. "Ambition or Dream?" Were his ambitions dreams or was the letter in his hand the first step in achieving something beyond his lot in life? For now he had work to get to, so he would think about it later.

By evening Tom had come up with a solid idea for a story exploring the issues surrounding employers giving permission for young men in their employ to enlist. He knew the topic was hotly debated in the surrounding towns and by people from all walks of life. He would have no trouble finding people to talk to on both sides of the issue. He reread the submission guidelines and groaned at the statement that all stories must be submitted typewritten. One-step at a time my boy, as his mother used to say. The first was to get the editor, Mr. Wilson, to accept his idea for an article. He set about writing his letter, outlining the key points and the controversy surrounding the issue.

"Like it or hate it, its worth a shot," Tom mumbled to himself as he got ready for bed.

Mr. Wilson's reply came six days later. He liked the story idea and as long as Tom painted a complete picture of both sides of the argument he could see no reason not to publish. Tom's stomach twisted into a knot. He was excited at the opportunity, but at the same time apprehensive of the tasks involved, especially the typewritten part. Where on earth would he find a machine or even know how to use it? Writing for a paper, even a small one certainly wasn't something he wanted to share with the staff or really have anyone know about in his current position. He could imagine his Lordship's reaction, "A revolutionary chauffer, writing for a paper! How preposterous."

Tom decided to look in the second hand shops while he was waiting for his Lordship in York. There were three trips for meetings scheduled later this week and he knew at least one of them would entail hours of waiting. Maybe he could find something he could afford with his small pile of savings. At least his lordship allowed him free time while waiting, unlike many of the other drivers he knew who were chained to their motors rain or shine while their employers were occupied.

Tom managed to secure a full day off early in the week as he had worked through his last two half days and lost another two afternoons off the previous month. He had set off very early and managed to conduct the necessary interviews for his article. One in particular had made him shake his head. He had secured an interview with a local Alderwoman whom he recognized from Sybil's involvement in the suffragette movement. He had seen her many times when standing at the back of the crowd at a rally or following Sybil's canvasing group from a distance. No one paid any attention to the insignificant chauffer. The Alderwoman had been more than cooperative with her viewpoint but certainly hadn't recognized him. By the end of his day off, he had plenty of material for his article and had already completed the first draft.

Thursday morning he drove his Lordship into York for a meeting that would last all day. When Lord Grantham stepped out of the motor he turned to Branson and instructed him that he would not be needed to at least four p.m.

"Very good your lordship," Tom knew this meant be back by three but it gave him the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon to accomplish Mrs. Hughes' errands and do his own shopping. He could easily have the motor wiped down and be ready for the return trip later that day.

Tom had left his hat and gloves in the car. He didn't like wearing a hat very much even though it was the style. Maybe it was his rebellious nature or his desire for change but he liked the feeling of the wind blowing through his hair. As he walked he kept his eye out for the type of shop he was looking for. He knew he wouldn't find a shop that carried used merchandise in the high street. After about twenty minutes of window-shopping he spotted what he was looking for. In the window of small side street shop was a typewriter. It was definitely used with a few paint chips missing but if the price were right it would suit his purposes. When he spotted the price tag he let out a long sigh. Thirty pounds. That would take a huge amount out of his savings and at the rate the paper was paying he would have to write at least ten articles to make the money back. He had come this far, there was no turning back.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a middle aged man with the bonnet up on a lorry. The writing on the side of the box was the same as on the shop door. The man was muttering to himself and scratching his head.

Tom stepped over to him, "Are you having mechanical problems?" His couldn't help but smile as his naturally friendly personality broke through.

The older man up looked at him with a slight start, "Geor…". He paused with an odd expression, his face changed and he said in a heavy Yorkshire accent, "Aye, I can't seem to find what's wrong and with the army commandeering the only motor depot in town, I can't find a mechanic to fix it."

"I see. Is this your shop?" Tom inquired.

"Aye, it is."

"I could take a look at your lorry for you," Tom said. "You wouldn't have to pay me. I am interested in the typewriter in the window. Just discount whatever you think the job is worth if I can do the repairs for you."

"The older man looked at him with raised eyebrows. "What might your name be?"

"Tom Branson."

"Archie Merrifield, and I'll take that bargain. From that fancy jacket I assume you're a chauffer. This lorry is no use to me sitting here. It hasn't worked for the last week."

The two men shook hands and bent over the lorry to discuss the issues. After a few questions, Tom quickly discerned the pins for the steering had sheered off. It would not be a difficult repair for him with some simple replacement parts available from any machinery dealer. He gave Archie a list of parts to purchase, while Tom headed back to the Renault to retrieve his coveralls and tool kit he kept under the seat for any breakdowns. Two hours later Tom had replaced the pins and adjusted the clutch and hand brake.

"Well, you did a fine job," said Mr. Merrifield. "Now let's see about that machine."

"I don't have enough with me today, Mr. Merrifield. Perhaps I could come by the next time I will be in town with my employer and retrieve it?" Tom glanced at his pocket watch, "Right now I have to get back to my post." Tom had already rolled his sleeves down, put on his cuff links and was buttoning his jacket.

"Yes, Yes that's fine, Tom. By the way call me Archie," he looked at Tom straight in the eye. "Do you mind me asking what you want the typewriter for?"

"I'm a journalist or at least trying to be," said Tom with a laugh. "Now I must be off."

Archie Merrifield watched Tom as he strode off down the street. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and headed inside his shop. "The Mrs. won't believe it," he thought to himself.


	2. Finding Time

Finding Time

It was Saturday before Tom had a chance to return to Archie Merrifield's shop. Friday Lady Cora had decided to accompany her husband to York and Tom was busy waiting outside of shops and carrying parcels. Today Lady Edith was along to pay a call to a friend. Tom had a list of errands for Mrs. Hughes as well. He sighed in frustration, thinking there would be no way he would have a minute to himself. He was relieved to hear Lord Grantham instruct Lady Edith not to take up too much of the chauffer's time as he had errands to do for the estate that did not include waiting on her every whim.

"But Papa," Lady Edith had started to complain.

"I mean it Edith, with the fuel shortages the maximum advantage must be made of every trip."

Lady Edith had sat back with a "Huff," but finally gave in. Tom had both his passengers dropped off and would have two hours to accomplish his tasks. He moved as quickly as possible, plotting the shortest route between stops. When he finally arrived at the Merrifield's he had thirty minutes to spare.

He entered the shop. Archie Merrifield was nowhere insight. A middle-aged woman with a pleasant face greeted him. Her once auburn hair was streaked with grey and she wore a plain cotton dress covered by an apron.

"You must be Mr. Branson, my husband told me to expect you," she said with a smile.

"Yes I am. I've come for the typewriter."

"My husband has done nothing but rave about the repairs you did the other day to our lorry. It's a big part of our business. He was lost without it," she said as she moved to bring a case with another box to the counter. "He thought this machine might suit you better. It's from America."

Mrs. Merrifield opened the leather case to display a typewriter with a folding carriage. It was small, light and obviously meant for someone who moved from place to place. The gold letters spelled out Corona 3 and while the case was worn from use the machine itself was in pristine condition.

Tom eyed the machine with longing. It was perfect. Small enough not to take too much room in his quarters and light enough that he would not have any trouble moving it.

"It's very nice Mrs. Merrifield. How much do I owe you?"

"Ten pounds," she said.

"I couldn't possibly take it for so little."

"You've done us a great service already. This machine is doing no one any good just sitting on a shelf collecting dust. It was meant to be used," she said almost wistfully.

Tom nodded and reached into his pocket for his billfold. He was a bit shocked at the Merrifield's generosity when he knew this type of machine sold for forty pounds or more new.

"Would you be able to wait for my husband to return?" Mrs. Merrifield inquired. "He really wanted to speak with you on another matter."

"I'm afraid I can't today. I have to be back in a few minutes." Tom said.

As they completed the transaction, Mrs. Merrifield handed him the second box.

"A few things that go with the machine," she said.

Before Tom left the shop she extracted a promise from him to return when he had more time. Tom returned to the car, stowed his purchases out of sight under the driver's seat and headed off to retrieve Lady Edith who was just emerging from the door as he pulled up.

The rest of the day was busy. It wasn't until late in the evening when he was able to retrieve the typewriter and box from the car and sit down at the table in his cottage. On closer inspection he noticed the well-used case for the typewriter bore the faint initials G.H.M. on the leather. He opened the second box Mrs. Merrifield had given him. Inside was a small leather bound notebook with the same initials inside the front cover, a gold plated fountain pen, a stack of typing paper, four boxes of spare ribbons and a roll of correction tape. The notebook and pen were obviously of high quality and worn smooth from handling. Tom frowned at the assortment of items in the box. It was a bit odd, but then you never knew with used items. He turned his attention back to the typewriter. He took out a sheet of paper, rolled it into the carriage and tried a few tentative pecks at the keyboard. He tried typing out a few words and promptly caught his index finger between two keys. "Well, this wasn't as easy as it looked," he thought as he sucked the end of his throbbing finger.

He inserted another piece of paper, got out his draft story and started typing very slowly. He though he was doing pretty well until he realized the paper was crooked and the ten lines of type were running at an odd angle down the page. He groaned. At this rate it would take him all week to transfer the draft. He dropped his head on the table.

"What have I gotten myself into," he blurted.

By the end of the week, things had been going much better with the typewriter and he had something he could send in to the paper.

A few weeks later an acceptance letter arrived from the Yorkshire Herald with a publication date, a request for another story and a check for the first article. This time the editor had requested a specific topic with a three-week deadline. Tom could write or telephone if he accepted the article. Tom's eyes widened at the offer. The payment wasn't huge but at this rate he would have the typewriter paid for in no time and he would be able to put together a portfolio of published work.

It was almost four weeks before he was able to get back to the Merrifield's shop in York. This time his Lordship had an afternoon meeting and dinner that was expected to last until at least 9 p.m. Tom's second article had gone well and he was getting much better at typing with regular practice.

When he entered the shop, Mrs. Merrifield greeted him right away.

"Mr. Branson, I am so glad you managed to find your way back," she said. "I am just getting ready to put the kettle on for tea won't you join us? My husband will be through in a minute."

Tom's eyes widened slightly at the invitation. Since his arrival in England he had been greeted more than once in local shops with "We don't serve Irish." Often people were polite but distant, not encouraging anything beyond the most basic conversation. Even at Downton Abbey the majority of the staff treated him as though he was somehow second-class, rather than in a higher position. He wasn't used to the open friendliness exhibited by this couple.

"Yes, thank you. That would be lovely."

He followed Mrs. Merrifield through to the apartment above the shop, once she had put up a small sign on the door, "Gone to Tea."

"You can wash your hands through there," she instructed.

As Tom emerged from the small washroom, Archie Merrifield arrived.

"Oh Tom, I'm glad you're back. How are you making out with the typewriter?" he inquired.

"Quite well thank you. Although I must admit at first I had rather sore fingers from pinching them between the keys." Tom's face broke into a wide grin when the older couple started to laugh.

"That sounds about right," said Archie. "We saved a couple articles in the Yorkshire Herald written under the name T. Branson. We wondered if that was you."

Archie brought out two papers that he had stacked on top of a bookcase.

"Yes, it was," Tom admitted while feeling the blush creep up his face. "You know you are the first person to ask me. No one else seems to realize it was me."

"Well, people often can't see what is right under their nose."

"I suppose you are right."

Just then the kettle came to a boil and Mrs. Merrifield shushed them to the table.

"I'm afraid our tea isn't very fancy," she said. "Just suet cakes with gravy. I always seem to make too much. I guess that is how it is when you raised a pack of boys."

Tom thought of the bread and cheese he had left in the car that seemed to be his standard fair these days when he had these long waits. It was filling, but tasteless.

"I'm sure it will be wonderful," he assured Mrs. Merrifield.

After a few minutes, Archie addressed him.

"I wanted to speak to you about a business proposition," he said. "Since you fixed my lorry I have had lots of other business owners around these parts ask who did the work. I was wondering if you might take on some repair jobs. In your spare time of course."

"I'm afraid I don't have much time off. I don't know when I will be in York and even then I am not sure for how long. I really don't see how I could manage it, Archie."

"Let me give you a better idea of what I was thinking. I haven't got where I am without being able to smell a good business opportunity," said Archie with a serious expression. "People around here are desperate with the army taking over the repair depot and there is a labor shortage. You could let us know when you are going to be on one of these long waits or when you are available to come up. I could arrange one or two vehicles for you to look at and you can work on them in our back yard. You would be well paid for your efforts and I would take care of collecting the funds. More of a partnership of shorts, I guess you could say."

"You might have something there," said Tom. "As long as you realize my trips to York and time here are very irregular. Are you sure people won't mind an Irish mechanic working on their motors. It wouldn't be the first time I've met with resistance to my nationality."

"If anyone has anything to say, I will charge them double," Archie said with a laugh. "You might find that kind of attitude at the top of high street, but the people in these parts are just decent hard working folk trying to get by. Believe me your efforts would be well appreciated. Have we got a deal then?"

A smile slowly spread across Tom's face.

"We do."

With that the men shook hands.

By November of 1915 Tom had published eight articles in the Yorkshire Herald and four others in two socialist circulars. His experience was starting to build, as was his understanding of what different editors were looking for. Only one article had come back with request for a re-write. The others had been accepted as written. As well he was learning some of the technical jargon of journalism such as pitch, option and by-line. He pretty quickly realized he could write the articles by hand while waiting for his employers while they paid calls or went shopping. He would type them up in the evenings when he didn't have to wait in the servants' hall to shuttle diner guests back and forth. No one noticed his absence as they assumed he was avoiding the ever annoying Claire and Hazel, who would be moving to factory jobs after the first of the year. He didn't mention his writing to anyone at Downton, nor did anyone ask him about it. Archie had been right. People often didn't see what was right under their nose.

He had only shared one of his articles with Sybil on her afternoon visits to the garage. He had written an article on the changing rolls of women in the workplace as the war had necessitated women taking over many traditionally male jobs such as lorry drivers. He thought it was safe enough if anyone discovered the circular in her possession as the typesetters had made an error and put B. Transon as the author's name. She had praised his efforts and asked if she could keep the copy as a souvenir.

Sybil often stopped by while he was working on the motors to discuss the progress of the war. Her father sheltered much of the information from his daughters and Tom who was always up on current events was a treasure trove of information. His keen sense of observation often gave further insight into the shifting tides of public opinion and the ensuing political upheaval.

At times he thought he saw something more in her eyes. He had caught her staring at him more than once. Was a relationship with this Lady from a different class a dream he could ever realize? Sometimes he though their worlds were too far apart to ever merge but when he allowed himself to look into her eyes, he felt as though his home lived in their depths.

He had managed to arrange to visit the Merrifield's at least six times over the last few months. On one of Tom's few full days off he had taken the bus to York and spent the day at the Merrifield's. Archie had been good to his word and each time had two or three lorries or motors for Tom to look at. The majority of the repairs were not complicated but stemmed more from lack of maintenance. Each time Tom stopped by there had been an envelope with cash waiting for him in the till and a list of people looking for repairs if he wished to do them. The Merrifields were always welcoming and had become close friends. As well he had met a number of people in their neighborhood who would wave when they passed him working in their yard or if they saw him standing by the motor waiting for one of the Crawleys.

Tom's savings had built up steadily over the year and he now had almost doubled the amount he had managed to save the previous year. So many of the young men in the area were eager to enlist. They had the lust of adventure and the youthful belief in invincibly fueling their drive. Tom thought the war was a fool's errand and nothing would convince him otherwise. He would wait for conscription and make his decisions if and when it came.

As he stood and watched the first snowflakes of early December start to fall on the grounds outside the garage his thoughts turned to Ireland and his Mam back home. This year he could afford to send her a decent amount and perhaps a small package besides. He would like to send her something nice. He knew if he sent cash she would never spend it on herself and most likely save it for a rainy day under her mattress. He wondered what she would think of his life here and his burgeoning writing career. He would include copies of his articles with his Christmas parcel, but for right now he needed to decide what to get. Maybe he would ask Lady Sybil's advice he thought to himself as he turned to go back to work.


	3. Extra Duties

Extra Duties

Early 1916 went along much the same as most of the previous year. Tom's writing was improving and he learned many of the pitfalls to avoid. He had four articles published in the first four months of the year, one of which was reprinted in two other papers. He was steadfastly avoiding the Tory papers and the scandal sheets and concentrated his work on articles surrounding how the war was affecting people he met in his everyday life. It wasn't the highly political or controversial style he would have preferred, but it was a start and he had earned the trust of a few editors.

In April the papers were full of the stories of the Easter Rising in Ireland. Tom had thought about handing in his resignation and heading back north, but there was something keeping him in England. He was in love with Sybil Crawley. There was no getting around it. He just couldn't give up the shred of hope that she returned his feelings when he looked into her eyes or she sought him out during her afternoon walks.

He had asked for her help in choosing a Christmas gift for his mother last December and she had suggested a pair of kid gloves that would be suitable for church. Tom's face had gone white at the thought of entering a ladies shop and actually making a purchase. He picked up parcels regularly for the ladies of the house but he kept his eyes straight ahead and exited the shop as soon as he could. More than once he had seen other men being drug into those shops by their wives who needed "a male opinion." Almost all had a look of abject horror on their face at entering the feminine land of lace and frilly drawers.

When Sybil asked him what size gloves his mother wore he looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

"Size? They come in different sizes?" What he didn't know about ladies clothing could fill all the volumes in his lordship's library he thought to himself.

She had laughed and grasped his wrist holding her hand up to his.

"Of course, silly. Are her hands like mine or larger like yours?"

Her fingers had teased a light touch across his and he had longed to close his hand around hers, draw her closer and kiss her until she clung to him. Of course he could not do that as the difference in their positions prevented him from initiating any form of physical contact. He withdrew his hand quickly and shoved it in his pocket to keep from reaching for her.

"No more like Mrs. Hughes', I think," he said as he quickly averted his eyes.

Lady Sybil had taken pity on him and arranged a shopping trip to Malton under the excuse of wanting to look for something different for her own Christmas gifts. He had stood a respectful distance behind her while she made a selection. No one thought it was at all strange when he paid for the gloves. It wasn't unusual for aristocratic young ladies to never physically handle money.

He couldn't leave Downton. Not yet. Not until he at least had spoken to her about his feelings and had an answer one-way or the other. The letter containing the news of his cousins' death during the Easter Rising had filled him with grief and anger at the arrogance of the British government and their occupation of Ireland. His views on the situation though had changed somewhat since coming to work in England. There were many people here who didn't agree with their government's actions or the war but were helpless against the tide of those in control. The lack of voting rights not only for women but anyone who did not own property or pay rent meant that many of those sent to fight in the killing fields of the France had no say in how things were run. Even Lord Grantham had been a surprise and much different than he had expected from someone of the aristocracy.

The weather that year had been particularly stormy and had restricted his lordships' trips to York for his meetings. By May, Tom had had only two chances to stop by the Merrifield's shop for any amount of time. In June the second of the stationary engineers who maintained the estate electricity generators was called up for the army. Tom was the only person left on the estate with mechanical experience and it was decided between the estate manager, his Lordship and Mr. Carson the task of maintaining the generators would go to Tom until a replacement could be found.

The maintenance was an essential part of the estate especially at this time of year when produce from the home farm would be put up for the following winter. The generators required constant maintenance and a heavier type of tool set than Tom was used to. The type of mechanics was somewhat different than motorcars so Tom spent a great deal of time reading manuals and figuring out what needed to be done.

Free time became a thing of the past. Pratt could do some of the driving but the man was completely useless at vehicle maintenance and Tom's workload was almost doubled. He barely had time to keep up with the papers let alone write any articles or think about his grief over his cousin. He had managed to write a note to Mr. and Mrs. Merrifield explaining his extra duties and had received a reply stating that he was always welcome to stop by once things slowed down on the estate.

By early August Tom decided the main generator needed an overhaul and would have to be shut down for a number of days. The announcement was met with some hostility and of course Miss O'Brien made a few disparaging comments when she heard the news. Tom was one man instead of the two previously employed and there was nothing he could do about the inconvenience. He had to double-check all of his work against manuals and it took time.

It was a hot day when he began work on the overhaul and he had given up on wearing the starched shirt and tie under his coveralls while he worked on this blasted contraption.

Sybil came to see him that afternoon. She had been more and more preoccupied the last few times he had seen her. Her visits had been less frequent as his extra duties were keeping him away from the garage and her grief over the loss of so many of the young men she knew was taking its toll on her.

Today she sat on a crate in the machinery shed while Tom took a short break to get a drink of water. He settled on the ground beside her for a few minutes. She was particularly low today. A letter had arrived from one of her London friends to say all three of her brothers had been killed in Belgium. The tears slowly trickled down her cheeks as she stared at her lap and struggled for composure. Her hand had reached out, grabbed his grease-covered one and held on tightly. Tom did not say a word, just sat and held her hand until she had risen silently and walked away.

The work on the generator was slow and difficult. By the end of the third day the job was completed and he was exhausted. When Tom hadn't shown up for lunch or dinner in the servants' hall Mr. Carson decided to walk down to the chauffer's cottage at the end of the day and get an update on when electricity would be restored. When he arrived the door to the cottage was ajar. He spotted the younger man fully clothed slumped over asleep on the small table with his head resting on an unopened newspaper. Mr. Carson decided to speak to Lord Grantham about a bonus for Mr. Branson. He certainly deserved it after the long hours he had been putting in with absolutely no time off over the last few months.

A week after the power was restored Mr. Carson called Tom into his office.

"Mr. Branson you will be happy to know a suitable candidate as been hired to see to the generator. He will be arriving next week. I am sure I can count on you to update him on the status of the machine works."

"Thank God!" Tom thought to himself. He could not see why anyone would prefer that bloody contraption to the sleek lines of an automobile. He wouldn't miss it one bit. He was careful to keep his expression neutral.

"I must admit I am looking forward to handing my generator duties over to another."

"Yes, well," Mr. Carson cleared his throat. "I have spoken to his Lordship and he has decided to grant you a bonus for your service in this matter. As well you will be entitled to three full days off once the new man has settled in. As an additional bonus you may have the use of the town car for your leave."

Mr. Carson named a sum for the bonus that was quite generous. Tom knew the stationary engineers position was one of the most prestigious and highly paid on the estate at almost ten times his own salary, but the amount of his bonus was still a surprise.

"Thank you Mr. Carson, I am happy to accept."

Tom arranged his time off for the second week of September while the Crawleys would be away in London. The trip from Ireland had taken a week when he first came over and even with the recent improvements in rail travel, the trip still took much too long for his allotted days off.

Tom had missed his writing while he did double duty and wanted to get back to it. He wrote a note to Mr. Wilson at the Herald to inquire after writing assignments. As well he sent a pitch letter to the editor of one of the papers that had reprinted his story earlier in the year. He also sent a note to the Merrifields and one to Iann, a friend he had worked with previously but not had the opportunity to visit in the last two years.

Before he left Tom received offers for articles from both papers. He also received an invitation from the Merrifields to come by for a small get together. Their youngest son, Reggie, was home on leave from the merchant marine and he was welcome to join them for a small party at their home. His return message from Iann was worrying. Iann had received his conscription notice and would be reporting for duty at the end of September. He would be glad to see Tom and renew their friendship.

Tom packed his belongings into the town car. He had his pen and leather notebook, typewriter and a bag of personal items secured in the back seat. He found writing to be a joy rather than work and planned to spend his three days off working on the articles, catching up on his reading and visiting with his friends.

As Tom drove along the familiar roads he found he was enjoying himself. No one was looking over his shoulder and counting the minutes until his return. The town car had been purchased before the war for household errands but with the fuel shortages it now saw little use. He stopped in Ripon and made inquires for some interviews and collected background information. He arrived at the Merrifield's at the appointed time and was greeted by Mrs. Merrifield as she was just closing up the shop.

"Oh Tom, I am so glad you could come," she said. Reaching over to give Tom a quick hug. "We've missed you these last months. Come through and meet our son and the others."

"I'm glad to be back, even if just for a short visit." Tom realized the last time anyone had greeted him in that manner was his Mam on his last visit home before he left for England. He felt slight moisture in the corner of his eye at the thought.

"I'm afraid most of our guests are female as there isn't many young men about these days. You're a welcome addition to our little group."

Tom headed upstairs after Mrs. Merrifield and was promptly introduced to Reggie their youngest son. He was the image of his mother with auburn hair and bright green eyes. He liked to make jokes and his personality quickly made itself apparent. Also in attendance were Reggie's fiancée Mary, her older sister Jane and two of their friends. Introductions were made and conversation flowed all around.

Reggie was a steward on a merchant ship and had been on convoy duty in the North Atlantic for the last two years. On his last trip he had brought home a large can of maple syrup from Montreal. He stood in the small kitchen wrapped in one of his mother's aprons making pancakes and regaling them with humorous antidotes about life at sea. Pancakes and maple syrup he claimed were the ambrosia of the French Canadians and he was determined to recreate them for the evening meal.

"I can't seem to make the pancakes come out right if the deck isn't heaving," he joked. There was a lot of good-natured banter back and forth until everyone got a plate with a stack of misshapen pancakes covered in maple syrup. The taste was smooth and sweet. It reminded Tom of a Christmas toffee he had had once as a small boy with a nutty flavor mixed in.

"My Dad tells me you're a chauffer," Reggie said to Tom as they were finishing their pancakes.

"Amongst other things. These days I seem to be a Jack-of-all-trades, master of none. I work for a large estate and write in my spare time."

"How did you meet my parents, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I was looking for a typewriter and wound up helping your father with his lorry."

"I sold him the Corona for a good price," Archie said. At this he caught his son's attention and looked him directly in the eye.

"I see," said Reggie with a suddenly serious look. "I hope you are making good use of it."

"Well, I am trying but this last couple months I have had double duty at the estate with all the labor shortages. It hasn't left much time for anything. Now that they have hired a new man I'm back to writing. I've got a couple articles to do over the next week."

"Are you planning to enlist?"

"No, I will deal with the conscription when the time comes."

"As the bard said, the pen is mightier than the sword," Reggie quickly turned back to his joking demeanor. "Too bad out, out damn spot won't work on all this batter I spilled on myself. I'll be in the laundry tub all day tomorrow."

Once the dinner was finished the younger people headed to a local pub for dancing and a few drinks. All of the women in the group had beaus either in the merchant navy or serving in France. Men were in short supply and the two men danced with each of the girls in turn. They drank a few pints and shared more than one laugh. They all put aside their grief and worry over the war and shifting politics for a few hours and enjoyed the company.

Tom was having a good time, but as he danced with each girl he could hear a whisper in his head, "Sybil."

That night when Tom retired to the inn his dreams were filled with Sybil, Sybil laughing and talking with his friends, Sybil dancing with him at the pub, Sybil beside him in bed. Her blue eyes looked into his and he gasped as her hands ran over his bare skin. She sighed and groaned as he touched and kissed her. Her breath tickled across his shoulder as she whispered his name. It felt as though they would never get enough of each other. Tom woke suddenly and turned to reach for her only to find himself alone.

"Its just a dream," he said into the darkness of the room.


	4. Getting Angry

Getting Angry

A week before Christmas 1916 Mr. and Mrs. Merrifield had finished their dinner and were sitting in their small sitting room in their above store flat. Archie Merrifield had the store account books spread out on the desk before him, while his wife worked on her darning.

"Tom Branson was by this afternoon," said Mrs. Merrifield. "He wished us a Happy Christmas and dropped off a basket of apples. He didn't stay long."

"That was nice of him. I'm sorry I missed him."

"His employer has some new appointment with the North Riding Volunteers. He said the man will be having regular meetings once a month in York that should take all day. He'll let you know when he will be in town so you could set up some motor repair appointments."

"That's fine," said Archie. He hadn't looked up from his books.

Mrs. Merrifield paused for a few minutes.

"He had that look," she said.

"What look would that be?"

"The one when a young man is having problems with a girl. I haven't raised three boys to adulthood without seeing that look before."

"He's an adult. He'll work it out."

"I suppose your right. Have you ever told him about . . .?"

"No, it's just not something you bring up in a casual conversation. The time just never seemed right. Now come and explain this receipt you wrote out the other day. I can't find the corresponding transaction."

Over the next six months Tom stopped by the Merrifield's to do repair work at least once a month. He was quieter than he had been in the past, and while he still smiled easily it didn't quite reach his eyes. Both of the Merrifields noticed the change but respected his privacy and didn't comment.

Tom was still writing regularly. Labor shortages were also being felt in the journalism world and he was getting regular requests for articles from a variety of newspapers and periodicals. His articles were more polished than they had been in the past but they lacked the underlying passion of his early work. He had to force himself to clear his mind or the words would just not come.

Tom's grief over his cousin coupled with his disappointment and humiliation at his failed proposal in November was steadily turning to anger and resentment. He questioned his motives for staying at Downton. He had enough saved to support himself for the next two years if he didn't spend foolishly. At the same time he had a fairly easy job that provided regular meals, a uniform and a roof over his head, not to mention enough free time to do pretty much as he liked within reason and pay that was three times that of the same job in Ireland. "Whom am I kidding?" he thought to himself. "You still don't have your answer. She didn't say yes and she didn't say no. You proposed to a scared little girl."

When Tom had visited his friend Iann last year, they had discussed their options for avoiding conscription. Tom was not a violent man. He had no desire to fight for the British army. The brutality of the British in Ireland, coupled with the reports of men being sent to their deaths in droves by incompetent officers on the front lines gave him more than enough reason to refuse to fight. The tales of conscientious objectors being beaten and degraded in prison were no worse than the sight of the mangled bodies of the men in the local hospital. If death didn't find you first, the alternative was much worse. If the notice came Tom had known what he would do.

* * *

He was reeling in shock from his rejection by the army for a heart murmur. It must be worse than they were letting on, as they were pretty desperate for soldiers these days and took almost anyone who could stand and hold a gun. He had never been much for running around outside when he was young. Everyone had put it down to his being "bookish", but now when he thought about it, it made sense.

When Sybil made a comment about the English not being their best in Ireland, he had seen red. She spoke from the arrogance and ignorance of her social status. It hit his grief and shock dead center. He had been angry. The pain and humiliation he felt the previous November in York when he declared his feelings to her had come rushing back and he wanted nothing more than to hurt her as badly as she had hurt him. His words had rushed out in a tirade and he could see the hurt in her eyes. He was surprised she hadn't said anything and gotten him fired. He had certainly over stepped the bounds. Even more surprising was when she had sought him out a few days later to apologize for the insensitivity of her remark. He had accepted her apology but had not lingered to chat. The pain squeezing his heart was still too intense.

At the beginning of July 1917 everything he had been feeling over the last year, came to a head. Mr. Carson was at the head of the table in the servants' hall discussing an upcoming visit by a famous general.

"We will be most honored here at Downton to be hosting General Sir Herbert Strutt, Hero of the Somme. I want everything to go smoothly. We must present everything to the very highest standard to honor such a great man."

"Hero of the Somme, indeed," Tom wanted to scream at the butler. "More like a butcher with shiny brass buttons!" Tom could feel the rage building inside himself. How could anyone be so blind as to spew such nonsense? Didn't these people read the papers? Didn't they talk to those around them outside the estate? How could anyone not see what this man and the other generals in charge of the battle had done.

The Somme had been a bloody battle with high loss of life. The men at the front had been ordered to walk into battle. Walk not run into a hail of machine gun fire. Entire regiments had been ordered to advance when the generals knew they would have one hundred percent loss of life. There were small towns all over England, Ireland, Scotland and Canada where entire generations of young men had been wiped from the face of the earth in the course of one battle. All anyone had to do was to talk to the families left behind to understand the finality of the general's incompetence.

Early the morning after Tom's failed attempt to humiliate the general Mr. Carson showed up at the chauffer's cottage. Tom stood in the middle of the room wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back and a plain pair of pants with suspenders. He hadn't bothered to shave and his hair was uncombed.

Mr. Carson's eyes narrowed slightly. This was not the Tom Branson he knew over the last four years. This man looked haunted, as though he had lost something and didn't quite know where to locate it.

"Mr. Branson I have come here this morning to let you know of my decision regarding your behavior last night. Your service to the house has always been of the highest level. The estate could not have managed without you last summer and it is for these reasons that I am willing to overlook your transgression. Mrs. Hughes and I have discussed the situation and have decided as long as you will give me your word of honor nothing like this will ever happen again, you may retain your position."

"I don't know if I can do that, Mr. Carson," Tom said lifting his chin slightly.

Mr. Carson looked Tom straight in the eyes for a few minutes, when Tom suddenly said, "Please excuse me," and dashed outside.

Mr. Carson could hear the unmistakable sounds of Tom loosing the contents of his stomach somewhere outside the cottage. While Tom was composing himself, Mr. Carson took the opportunity to look around the cottage. It quickly became apparent something was very wrong with the young man. Tom was normally meticulous in his appearance and dress and could rival his lordship himself in grooming. If one didn't know better they would swear a valet dressed the man every morning instead of living on his own in a cottage.

This morning the cottage was in a state of total disarray. Cloths and books were strewn everywhere about the room. The dishes on the sideboard had been washed, but instead of sitting on the shelves they had been tossed all over the counter and shelves. Some were stacked on the chairs by the small table. Amongst the dishes books and circulars were laying where they rested, as though someone had been throwing them at the dishes for target practice. On one shelf in the midst of the chaos where neatly staked newspapers and flyers that appeared to have never been touched, while at the same time the table and floor were covered with pieces of paper in no particular order. A leather notebook, gold plated fountain pen and a black case sat on top of the mess on the table.

"That's odd," thought Mr. Carson. "Lord Grantham has a fountain pen exactly like that in the library." While he was sure Mr. Branson had not pilfered it, he would double check when he returned to the house.

When Tom re-entered the room a few minutes later Mr. Carson turned to him and said, "Mr. Branson I have informed his lordship you were taken ill yesterday evening. I will excuse you from your duties for the day. Please take the day and consider your position with the house. I will expect your answer this evening after the staff meal."

"Very good, Mr. Carson I will do that."

As soon as Mr. Carson left the cottage, Tom shaved, finished dressing and headed out the door. He didn't know where he was going, but he had to get away from the estate.

On his way out the gates Tom came face to face with Lady Sybil. She had been called to the hospital in the middle of the night when one of the nurses had taken ill and was just returning. Anna had told her last night about the attempt to humiliate the general, which would have certainly landed Tom in jail and brought down shame upon Sybil's family.

"Branson, I heard what happened last night."

"I see. Did you have a good laugh?" Tom's face was dark and he wouldn't look at her.

"What? What are you talking about? I'm worried about you."

"Why bother?"

"Branson, please. Please promise me you will stop these protests. You are going to get yourself jailed or worse."

"I can't do that, Lady Sybil. Now if you will excuse me," he said and started to walk past her.

"Tom Branson, what is the matter with you?" she called after him.

Tom did not look back. He just kept walking.


	5. Grief and Answers

Grief and Answers

Later that same morning Archie Merrifield returned from doing his errands. He had made the rounds of the post office and bank and had been dealing with an unsatisfied customer who was complaining about some chairs she had purchased. The color of the fabric was just "too red" she claimed. "Annoying old trout," he had thought to himself as he dealt with her complaints.

"Tom's here," his wife informed him. "He showed up an hour ago out of the blue. He said he thought your lorry needed some maintenance. He looks terrible."

She motioned for her husband to follow her to the back door that lead to the yard. The sound of tools being dropped and a steady tirade of Irish could be heard coming from under the lorry. One didn't have to understand the words to know they were all curses.

"That's been going on since he got here."

"Alright, I'll have a word with him," said Archie.

Tom had become a close family friend over the last two years. They had both been worried about him and his steady withdrawal into himself since last Christmas.

Tom was just finishing replacing the oil plug when a pair of feet appeared beside the lorry.

"Have you told it off sufficiently?" Archie inquired in a neutral tone.

"I suppose," came the reply followed by a short self-deprecating laugh.

"Right then, when you're finished up here let's go for a pint. Just don't tell my Mrs."

"Alright."

A short while later the two men made their way to the Rose and Thistle a few doors away. Once they had their pints they settled at a small table near the back of the establishment. Tom was unusually quiet. A fact not lost on Archie.

"Have I ever told you about my eldest son?" Archie inquired.

"No you never mentioned him."

Each of the men took a drink from their ale and settled back into their chairs.

"George was a good boy. He would be about ten years older than you are now if he had lived. You know the first time I saw you standing there asking me if I needed help with my lorry, I thought a ghost had risen from the grave and had come to visit. He was a little taller than you and wore spectacles, but he was always cheerful and willing to lend a hand to anyone who needed it."

Tom's eyes widened and he stared at Archie but said nothing.

"He was always a smart one, always reading not like our other two at all. Devoured books he did when he was young. He couldn't get enough. He went to grammar school and attended Cambridge on a full scholarship. He could hold his own with the toffs. His mother was right proud of him. We all were."

Tom's gaze shifted back to his pint. George Merrifield, the name sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place it.

Archie took another drink before he continued.

"He had a knack for languages and writing. He was interested in world events so he took a post at a large paper in London when he graduated. It wasn't long and he was traveling all over Europe covering the news."

Suddenly it hit Tom where he had heard the name before.

"George Merrifield was your son? _The _George Merrifield? The acclaimed war correspondent?"

"Aye, that's right."

"George Merrifield, George Merrifield," the name rang over and over inside Tom's head. "Bloody Hell! I'm sitting here with George Merrifield's father," Tom thought to himself. George Merrifield had written eyewitness accounts of Bloody Sunday at the beginning of the Russian revolution and reported on almost every important event in Europe until his death at the beginning of the Great War. Very little was known in the public about how he died, but his stories were almost legendary in the journalism world.

"He died in France, during the first barrage," Archie continued. "He wasn't even anywhere near the front lines. There was an accidental discharge when a soldier was cleaning his rifle. The bullet went right through his heart. It killed him instantly."

Archie paused and slowly twisted his glass in his hand. Lost for a moment in his memories.

"The grief and anger at first was terrible when we got the news. He had such promise and it was gone in a second with a foolish accident that could have been prevented," he paused and took a drink. "A few weeks afterwards a letter arrived. The boy whose rifle had discharged had been killed and they had found a letter to us in his personal affects. He had written to tell us how sorry he was. You could see how his hands had shook when he wrote and the paper was slightly smudged. He never lived to post it. He was seventeen years old. Just a wet behind the ears boy."

At this Archie raised his eyes and looked Tom straight in the face.

"Now I ask you who is it that I should hate? Is it that poor young boy lying dead in a grave in France? He was a Scott. How about his countrymen? Should I hate them? How about the government who sent him to war with an outdated rifle that was known to discharge without warning? Maybe the politicians who started this war in the first place, or how about the Huns or the Turks or maybe the French? How about the person who made the bullet that killed my son or the miner that dug the ore in the first place?"

Tom's gaze was now locked on Archie's.

"All I can tell you is grief and anger are a one way street leading to a brick wall, going nowhere. That wasn't how my son lived his life."

Archie finished the rest of his pint and stood to leave.

"I had better get back before the Mrs. skins me alive."

He took a step away from the table, before he turned back.

"Oh another thing. If you still love that girl, tell her so."

With that Archie plopped his cap on his head and headed out the door.

Tom sat for a long while staring into his ale lost in his own thoughts. He rose from the table and made his way to the bus that would take him back to Downton.

It was late afternoon by the time Tom returned to his cottage. He walked to the table and looked down at the typewriter, notebook and pen lying on the table.

"Jesus Christ," he said aloud. It all made sense, the initials on the typewriter and notebook, Reggie Merrifield asking him if he was putting his dead brother's things to good use. The times Mrs. Merrifield would make a casual comment on an article he had just published. "Jesus Christ."

Tom grasped the edge of the table and closed his eyes. The faith these people had placed in him and he had almost thrown it all away on a stupid stunt. George Merrifield had made a difference in this world. His stories were eloquent and pushed people to think beyond themselves. They spurred debate and forced people to take a closer look at themselves.

Tom's thoughts turned to his cousin. Back home everyone had said how alike they were, although Tom had thought his own touch of red in his hair made him more hot tempered. His cousin abhorred violence and had always said change in Ireland would belong to those who maintained their honor and used their minds not their guns.

Tom chided himself. He had been a fool, a complete bloody fool. "I won't always be a chauffer. Bet on Me. I will make something of myself. I promise." His words came back to haunt him. "You Tom Branson are an idiot, a god damn idiot," he said into the empty room. He had allowed his grief and anguish to put him on the fast train to nowhere. He was done with that.

Tom opened his eyes and looked around the cottage. What a mess. He got busy and started picking things up and putting the place to rights. When he was done he glanced at the clock and headed up to the main house to speak to Mr. Carson.

"Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word in private," he said as he entered the kitchen. Mr. Carson looked up. This wasn't the lost young man he had spoken to this morning. There was a maturity about Mr. Branson that had never been there before.

When they entered Mr. Carson's office. Tom spoke before either of the senior house staff had a chance to speak.

"No more protests, Mr. Carson, no more stunts. I give you my word of honor. I will resume my duties in the morning if you are agreeable." Tom extended his hand to shake with the older man.

Mr. Carson took his hand and said, "Yes, quite agreeable."

Mrs. Hughes could only stand there with her mouth slightly agape.

"Mrs. Hughes, my apologies for my behavior yesterday." Tom gave her a slight bow before he turned and strode out of the room.

"What brought that on?" the housekeeper questioned.

"I have no idea," was Mr. Carson's only reply.


	6. Inspiration

Inspiration

The end of July 1917 was a quiet time on the estate for Tom. Fuel was being strictly rationed which meant errands, shopping trips and meetings were limited to essentials only. Tom's job became more of gopher for Mrs. Hughes than anything else. Mr. Branson go for this, Mr. Branson go for that. There was only so much walking into the village, playing with the engines and washing of cars you could do before the boredom drove you crazy.

Thank goodness for his writing. There was a story that had been in the back of Tom's mind since he met Reggie Merrifield. He had been collecting information since last fall and it was time. He had done a short article since the fiasco with the general and the tone of his work was changing. His old passion was back, but now it was tempered with a desire to challenge the reader and bring the story to life on the page.

The evening was warm, crickets chirped in the bushes and he could hear the rustle of owls' wing as they flew past the open doors of the cottage. Tom unbuttoned his shirt, laid out the contents of the folder and began to type. His words and thoughts flowed out of him as they hadn't in a very long time. When he finished the piece he knew what he would do with it.

The following week Lord Grantham planned a trip to York. Tom had a large list of errands to do for Mrs. Hughes as the extra people staying in the house for convalescence was taxing the household resources to the limit. Lady Mary and Edith were also along, but their father had made it clear that Branson had the next four hours to get the household business done. He was not to be toting packages or running them to their friends' homes.

Tom had one task of his own to accomplish and as most of the errands were in the same street as the Yorkshire Herald, he took the time to stop in. The secretary at the reception desk had a sour expression on her face as she peered through her spectacles and reached for the envelope in his hand.

"I'll take that," she said. Her nasty expression had turned to one of haughty disdain at the site of his chauffer's livery. Tom had been in a rush to get as many errands accomplished as possible and he was still wearing his hat and driving gloves.

He took off his hat and tucked it under his arm.

"Please inform Mr. Wilson that Tom Branson is here and would like to speak with him." Tom's steady gaze and the determination in his face gave her no room for argument.

In a few minutes, a slight man in his late thirties with thinning hair came bustling out of a back office.

"Mr. Branson. I am very pleased to meet you at long last. Please come in." If the uniform surprised him he had the good grace not to show it. "What can I do for you?" he said as he closed the door and moved behind the desk, indicating Tom should take the chair opposite him.

"I've written an unsolicited piece. You were the first editor to give me a start and I thought you might be interested."

Tom handed him the envelope, removed his gloves and balanced his hat on his knee. Mr. Wilson picked up his editing pencil and began to read. He slowly set his pencil down and didn't look up until he had finished.

"I must say this piece is good. It's beyond good. It's excellent. Mr. Branson your writing is regularly of a high quality but this is not what I expected and if I may be so bold to say, you are not what I expected."

Tom's eyes twinkled with a suppressed laugh.

"I get that a lot."

Tom's article told the story of the merchant navy on convoy duty in the North Atlantic. It was poignant and hard hitting and didn't spare a government who gave no official recognition or compensation to the men who transported dangerous goods, food supplies and munitions to the beleaguered British Isles. The job was no less dangerous than the naval escorts who accompanied them. The living conditions were often substandard. The voyages were fraught with peril from mines, submarine attacks and surface raiders. The men of the merchant navy sailed because it was the right thing to do, not for medals, not for glory but for their people regardless of borders or accents.

Mr. Wilson went to the door and called, "Miss Pearson, please have this article placed front page, bottom right in tomorrow's edition. I don't care whom you are holding the space for. It could be the Duke of York for all I care. Just see to it."

"Now Mr. Branson I would like to offer you a staff writing position with the paper." Mr. Wilson named a sum that was more than fair for a paper of the size.

"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Wilson, but I must decline your offer. I have some unfinished business at the estate where I am employed."

"I understand, but it is our loss. Is there a way I can contact you quicker in the future?"

Tom gave him the code for Mr. Carson's telephone, but asked that he not identify the paper when he called.

"My employers and the other staff members wouldn't understand. Now I must get back to my duties."

Tom put his hat back on as he exited the building and headed off to finish his errands and retrieve his employers. He had no way of knowing he had just submitted a story that would be reprinted in ten papers across the British Empire and start a parliamentary debate on both sides of the Atlantic that would last for the next eighty years.

A week or so later a letter arrived at the Merrifield's shop. When Archie opened it he found a newspaper clipping with a note. Inscribed on the note were two words.

Thank You.

* * *

In the spring of 1918 Tom was working on the Renault when his unfinished business approached him wearing a grey nurses' uniform and carrying a blanket draped over her arms.

"Why did you promise Mr. Carson you wouldn't stage anymore protests when you wouldn't promise me?"

It was time to move forward, to make Sybil Crawley aware that he still loved her and force her to come to terms with her own feelings. He had his reasons for promising Mr. Carson he wouldn't stage anymore protests, as he had his reasons for not telling her about his writing. The details weren't important, it all came down to whether or not she loved him. The end of the Great War was coming and with it the old class structures were starting to fall. There would always be those who resisted change and those who embraced it. Tom would wait for his answer and one way or the other he would have it.

By the end of 1918 Tom had received two more offers of staff writing positions with different papers. He was making a name for himself and regularly received requests for articles. Two of the papers had offered him by lines, but he had turned them down.

"What would I say?" he quipped. "Irish socialist, chauffer, sometimes mechanic and writer? Maybe Jack-of-all-trades? No, no one would ever believe it. T. Branson is fine."

He now knew who he was as a writer. His was the voice of people, regardless of class, sex or nationality. It didn't matter what government was in power there would always be those who needed a voice and those who needed someone to make them sit up and take notice. It wasn't the political, controversial slanted jargon he once dreamed of. Archie Merrifield had been right. People didn't see what was right under their nose and he had been just as bad as the next. The stories were there in the everyday people and in their lives. You just had to open your eyes and look for it.

That December Reggie Merrifield celebrated his wedding. Tom was invited and wondered if Reggie had seen the article on the merchant navy and how he would react. At the reception Reggie came over to him and slapped him on the back.

"My Dad was right about you. You're a shit disturber just like my brother George. Now let's go find that bottle of Canadian Whiskey I smuggled in. I swear those folks from the colony have the best darn drink on the planet."

Tom threw back his head and laughed. Reggie Merrifield wasn't far off. His Da was right about a lot of things.


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

March 1919 had been a warm, wet month and the cherry trees on the estate were out in early bloom. The Tom's half day off was the last Wednesday of the month and it had turned out to be sunny and warm. He changed out of his uniform into a suit, picked up a closed file folder from the table and headed to the orchard. At this time of year the gardeners were busy with spring planting and the orchard was always deserted. Tucked away in the back corner, well out of site from the gate and shielded by the blossoming trees was a stone bench. Lady Sybil Crawley sat on a thick wool blanket leaning back against a stonewall. She was reading a book and awaiting the arrival of her fiancé.

When Tom approached, she stood up, wrapped her arms around his waist and lifted her face for his kiss. They sat on the bench, leaned against the wall and reveled in the sensation of holding each other in the warm afternoon light away from prying eyes. Sybil's head rested on his shoulder while Tom's hand traced small circles on her back.

"Sybil," Tom said after awhile. "After our elopement attempt I sent an application for a journalist position to a paper in Ireland. With the political upheaval from the recent election there, I expect the mail is a little slower than normal. If I haven't heard back from them within the next two weeks, I would like to take one of the journalism offers I have received here in England. I have until the middle of April to respond if I haven't heard anything from Ireland."

"A journalist position?" Sybil lifted her head and looked at him with a frown. "I think you would do well at whatever you set your mind to, but what made you apply for a job at a paper? What job offers? I don't understand."

"There is something I have been meaning to tell you."

With that Sybil sat up straight and laid a hand on his arm. Her expression became even more serious.

Tom's face broke out in a huge grin.

"Don't fret. It's nothing horrible," he said with a laugh. "Do you remember a news paper article about a year and a half ago about the lack of recognition given to merchant sailors for their efforts and sacrifices to the war effort? It caused quite a stir in political circles both here and in Canada."

"Yes, I think so," Sybil still had a puzzled look on her face.

Tom kissed the top of her head before he continued.

"Well, I have to say it is a good thing your father was born an aristocrat as he would never make a living as an investigative journalist. When it was published he asked me if the T. Branson who wrote the story was a relative of mine."

He retrieved the folder from the bench beside him and handed it to Sybil. She slowly opened the file and looked inside. It contained copies of over fifty articles he had written in the last four years for newspapers and periodicals.

"The correct question was if the T. Branson who wrote the story was me."

With that Sybil raised her eyes from the file folder and looked into Tom's face. There she saw the realization of the promise he had made back in that archway in York when he first proposed just over two years ago. "_Bet on me, I will make something of myself, I promise._"

"Well my love, you are always full of surprises, and you certainly keep your word," she said as a smile began to spread across her face.

_the end_


	8. Notes

Becoming T. Branson Notes

Thank you all for so many words of encouragement on the stories I have written. I am adding a notes page to this story to answer the many historical questions. This is one of my most heavily researched stories and many of the points are there for a reason. Hope you enjoy and can't wait for next season of DA.

Chapter One

Out here in the real world, editors of smaller papers and magazines are always looking for new story ideas and new writers. Professional writers cite their work, or include a separate sheet with all sources to the editor of a publication. It is part of due process. All professional publications have submission guidelines.

Trading work for goods was not uncommon in 1915. There was a labor shortage at the time and mechanics would have been in high demand. The military was in the early stages of mechanization and would have taken any able-bodied man they could find with prior knowledge to service the military vehicles.

Chapter Two

The Corona 3 was produced in the United States and sold for fifty dollars US when it was introduced in 1912. It weighed six and three quarter pounds. The carriage folded in making the machine lightweight, portable and relatively inexpensive. The machine was the preferred typewriter for most correspondents until well into the 1940's. Many of the journalists who attended the Nuremburg Trials would have used a Corona 3 to submit their stories.

Suet cakes are scones made with grated beef tallow rather than shortening. They are an old fashioned English food and definitely were something consumed in Yorkshire. I don't know about the rest of the country. The way I have had them was with gravy or with a stew. They are super rich.

Prejudice is mentioned in this piece, as there was a great deal of anti Irish sentiment in Great Britain at the time. There were also lots of people who didn't buy into it. There are all kinds of academic articles available on the topic.

The type of publications I am describing in his early work would have paid a very nominal fee for the stories. This is typical for anyone entering journalism and building a portfolio.

Chapter 3

Large estates especially in the early days of power had their own generator plants. The stationary engineer was one of the most respected positions on an estate and paid really, really well and usually came with a nice house and a car. There was no public power in those days. It was generate your own or do without. If the stationary engineers were out of commission it follows you would need someone with mechanical aptitude to do the job. If you have ever worked on a large generator it is a heavy, greasy job.

On many estates chauffeurs were supplied an inexpensive car for errands and were free to use it for personal trips. In DA they don't have that perk but saving the day with the electricity, which also means the power to run the running water pumps and a host of other things would have been massively appreciated. The pay would have been high for an engineer so stepping in would get you a massive bonus.

A sailor on shore leave bringing home a can of maple syrup would have been a massive treat and occasion for a small party.

Chapter 4

Food was in short supply in the UK during WWI and a basket of apples would have been a normal Christmas gift at the time, if you could get ahold of them. Estates had large orchards and staff was often allowed to pick fruit for their own use.

Conscientious objectors were sent to prison and often beaten and dehumanized. There is very good section on this in the Masterpiece Drama Foyle's War set in WWII.

The battle of the Somme did in fact wipe out entire villages. In the Great War men were kept together with others from their hometowns as it was felt it built greater camaraderie among the troops. There was a great deal of ineptitude among the officers as they often bought their commissions or were granted authority by birthright rather than on knowledge or merit. The results were a redefinition of how things were run in the military post WWI.

Chapter 5

In early WWI many of the troops were issued obsolete rifles that misfired or were difficult to load. There are many historical documents on this.

Chapter 6

Fuel was in fact strictly rationed and more would have been done on each trip into town. The chauffeur who was also a chief errand boy of sorts would have had a lot do on each trip.

The plight of merchant sailors not receiving compensation and working in deplorable conditions is true. There are many books on the subject and a great deal of historical information. In Canada the merchant sailors who served during the world wars were not recognized as veterans until recently.


End file.
